


Sensory Voyeurism

by hopelessbookgeek



Category: Red vs. Blue, Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: GTA AU, Gen, I do not know what to call this or how to describe it, Implied Cannibalism, Just TRUST ME ON THIS it's a lot better than I can describe, Late night contemplation, Visceral description of death, suicide ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-21
Updated: 2017-04-21
Packaged: 2018-10-22 05:53:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10691076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hopelessbookgeek/pseuds/hopelessbookgeek
Summary: A less-than-legal experiment a few years back left the seven members of the Fake AH Crew carrying AI fragments. It's a little strange having someone else's voice in your head, to say the least. This is what that's like.





	Sensory Voyeurism

**Author's Note:**

> Just wanted to play around with the FAHC and Freelancer AIs as a combination, basically. In case it's still unclear, Jack is paired with Delta, Lindsay with Epsilon, Jeremy with Theta, Gavin with Eta and Iota, Ryan with Sigma, Michael with Omega, and Geoff with Gamma.

**Δ**

_Here is what it is,_ thinks Jack.

It is raining; it is precisely seventy-two degrees Fahrenheit; it is 11:34pm on June the eighth; he is alone. There are four others in the house: two asleep, one pacing, one… busy. Heart rate 122. No– 132. Stationary. Anxious? No. Busy. Slight motion. Call it sensory voyeurism.

It is raining, and the rain falls in uneven pitter-patters down the windows. A summer thunderstorm, already receding. Flash– one, two, thr– clap. Flash– one, two, three, f– clap. Jack considers opening the windows, letting the thick sweet air soak into his bedspread, but the rain would seep through the screen and leave him with black mold.

It is raining, like it was that night at the prison. It is raining, like the night he met Geoff. It is raining, and the probability that it will affect the planned heist is next to none, precisely 1.32% as long as they stay off bikes and back roads. (Probability of mistakes on bikes: 34.99%. Probability of mistakes on back roads: 19.26%...)

Simple, precise. They will perform another heist. Simple, precise. They have survived every heist they have performed so far. Simple, precise. It is raining.

**Ε**

_Here is what it was_ , thinks Lindsay.

It was her fourth birthday party and all she remembers is green. It makes no sense; it was September, the grass would be brown and baked, and her favorite color was pink. But when the memory hits, all she senses is green. Perhaps it’s not the memory of green but the feel of it in the word, _four_ , the syllable round and tart as a green grape.

Every time she pauses, a spider web of memory cracks through her skull, an associative opposite of the pain spiking through her body whenever she moves. The memories flow like breaths: inhale, _sixthgradedancefirstkiss_ , exhale. Inhale, _fisthitsbrickcoldemergencyroom_ , exhale. Inhale, _lostlostlostlostlost_ , exhale.

She can’t even be sure they’re hers, everything with a taste and tactility, the barbed-wire cut-glass voice of an uncle, the mush-mouth mumble of the word _geography_ on her tongue, the sparking white kisses to a mouth not her own. Eidetic synesthesia.

Memories bleed into dreams, dreams drip into thought, thought sinks heavy and wet into fantasy, and fantasy falls back into memory, around and around like mixing paint. She learns not to pause, and tries not to dream. Inhale. Exhale.

**Θ**

_Here is what it will be_ , thinks Jeremy.

The whole world exists in elegant simplicity. The sky is not robin’s egg or periwinkle or indigo, the ocean is not teal or turquoise or sapphire. The sky is blue, light or dark. The ocean is blue, bright or deep. The world has been stripped of complex adjectives and stands still in simplistic modifiers.

Empathy is a strange thing in a crime lord, he figures, but it flutters somewhere deep in his chest anyway. The woman serving his coffee grimaces when she bends her wrist. _Is she okay?_ A man sitting on the subway pretends not to see the pregnant woman who has to stand. _That’s not fair_. He hears his friends in the rooms beside his, above his, pacing sleeplessly late at night or muttering incoherence. _Are they sick? Sad? Afraid? Can we help?_

After the next job, it’ll be easier. After the next job, there will be money to fix his transmission, to rewire the electricity so that his lights don’t spark, maybe even to get the cat he’s been thinking about lately. After the next job, they’ll be safer, softer, sweeter.

After, after. He scrubs the blood from under his nails and it isn’t ruby or garnet or scarlet but really just red.

**H/I**

_Here is what it should be,_ thinks Gavin.

Every thought is made of– every breath is taken by– every heartbeat fractured into two, two. One extra voice in his head is nothing– it is everything– it is no worse than a memory, or a conscience, or an imagination. But two is– two is– two is too much, it turns every fiber of his internality into a syncopated duet.

In battle it makes him formidable– it makes him equal to– it makes him _good_ , makes him fast and strong and twice as clever– twice as vulnerable. It is a constant nervous tic, eyes blinking out of order– heartbeat always irregular– fingers twitching. Two– two– one to make him whole and one to make him more, one to make him good and one to make him great, one to make him fall and one to make him fly.

He slips– slides– sinks into the most unnatural middle ground, reaches for happiness and finds fear, reaches for the stars and falls deeper into the earth. Aim– fire, aim– fire, aim– firefirefireAIM. He is out of sync. He is out of sync. He is out of sync.

Three minds– two intruders– one body. One of them is laughi– one of them is cr– one of them is wish– he is _screaming_ , and everyone can hear it but him.

**Σ**

_Here is what it could be_ , thinks Ryan.

There is a time after a summer sunset, when the sun has long since dipped below the horizon, when the last few rays of watercolor tints hang gauzy and delicate at the skyline and the sky above is deep warm blue. The day’s warmth is still soaked into the sidewalks and leather jackets, but the breezes bring a light, whipped texture to the air.

On those nights, the whole world hangs in stasis, weightless and warm, and possibility is endless, thick, and dripping like sweet honey. On those nights, the whole world is a canvas, and while this crowded island city tends to paint with blood and dirt, Ryan has greater plans.

His feet feel worn to the bone from years of running; his hands are callused and raw from wrapping around knife hilts; his eyes ache with exhaustion from midnight vigils. Ever since he was bound to a stinking metal table in the basement of an abandoned prison, he’s learned to live elegantly, sumptuously, bright and new and soft.

And if what it takes so that those summer twilights won’t ever end is that his friends burn the world down so he can rebuild from the ashes, well…

**Ω**

_Here is what it must be,_ thinks Michael.

Hot, sharp, dead. Dead? Not dead. Dying. Hot, red, wet, the scent of iron, the thick sick-sweet. There, there he is, crumpled in the alley like a marionette with his strings cut, down in the reeking shadow of an overflowing dumpster. Wet, thick, rotting. Rotted? Not yet. Almost. Dark, hot, wet, almost, almost…

Michael kneels at his side and feels the butterfly-beat of a pulse at his wrist and throat, bares his teeth in instinct. Bite. Bite, crack, sweet marrow, thick hot blood. Tear, rip, nails digging in like talons, like teeth. Heroin-gangrene between his toes, liquor eating away at his swollen liver… dying, rotting, almost dead, almost rotted.

Veins spider through his thin yellowed skin, black and hard. There was distant interest in that fact; Michael was peak health, handsome, top of the food chain. This was no one, nothing, he had been no one in life and would be no one in death. This was the visceral success of a hunter. And the _smell_ of him, hot, thick, wet, iron… Bite? _Bite._

He bares his teeth again and it is a smile and a threat all at once.

**Γ**

_Here is… something_ , thinks Geoff.

A list of things: the way the clink of a full bottle of liquor on the counter sounds subtly different than when the bottle is empty; the way tobacco smoke clings to fabric even hours after a cigarette is extinguished; the sound of bare feet pacing in the middle of the night when someone doesn’t want the whole world to know they’re sleepless.

A list of people: a brown-eyed sniper with slim hands and a twisted smile long since lost; a blue-eyed warrior queen with a fierce loyalty streak long since lost; a younger and less tired version of the scruffy tattooed man in the mirror long since lost.

A list of ingredients: seven bodies and eight extra fragments of consciousness; fifteen illegal firearms and countless legal ones; not enough to lose combined with no self-preservation, mixed with a heaping helping of addictions; a bad plan plus good luck.

A list of reasons not to empty a round into each and every person in this house before swallowing the barrel himself:

**Author's Note:**

> Hhhhhh if this worked at all or didn't work please consider leaving a comment!


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